


Carnations

by myrtlewilson



Series: Fragile Things [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hostage Situations, Huddling For Warmth, Injury Recovery, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, We are all up in Geralt's self-loathing headspace, and Jaskier lives there RENT FREE babey!!, big dumb witcher who thinks he's too rough for love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:40:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlewilson/pseuds/myrtlewilson
Summary: Geralt stepped away from camp for only a moment, Jaskier asleep near the fire, and that was all it took.(Alternatively: Geralt begins to realize he has feelings for Jaskier. He also realizes how dangerous that is when Jaskier is shot.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fragile Things [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595119
Comments: 93
Kudos: 1393
Collections: Best Geralt





	Carnations

Once it’s determined Jaskier hadn’t suffered any long lasting damage from the Drowner attack ( _ “ _ If I lose my voice then we lose at least a third of our income, you know! Our rations stocking and inn stays don’t come cheap!” “Oh, I’m well aware.”) the two of them are back on the road again.

Geralt tries not to think too hard about the kiss. The  _ resuscitation _ . Because it’s wasn’t anything else other than a life-saving technique he employed to save the bard from dying. Nothing more, nothing less.

They could carry on their way — well, really Geralt’s way, with Jaskier close behind him — as intended. Because if he went by Jaskier’s reaction, it certainly seemed like there was nothing wrong. No difference to the spring in his step or the amount of his chatter. Not in the jokes he told or the observations he made.

Really, it just seemed like a Geralt problem — the most difficult ones to solve since it was rare he admitted there was one in the first place. 

So, he stewed. Not that he preferred it, but because he couldn’t help it. Especially because he couldn’t help remembering the thoughts that came to him when he believed Jaskier dying. 

The thought of not hearing his music, his voice. The chance of waking up to a world where he was no longer in it. It was something that had dwelled in the back of his mind before, sure, but in the same way someone thought about their own death: The truth of it was there but the mind made sure to obscure it as much as possible.

Now that Geralt had considered it, it was all he could think about. Even now, sat across from him around the meager fire, Geralt couldn’t quiet his mind as Jaskier restrung his lute to the sound of his own humming. 

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“Hm?” 

Jaskier didn’t look up from what he was doing, but still, Geralt felt the pressure of his gaze upon him. “I can hear you  _ brooding  _ from all the way over there. Something must be of great import to have the mighty White Wolf so perplexed. Or, at the very least, that something must be more interesting than complete and utter silence.”

Oh, if Jaskier only knew what he was trying to get into. Geralt sighed and said nothing, electing to instead take the long stick he’d snatched while getting wood to gently poke at the embers of their fire. It didn’t need it, but Geralt figured Jaskier wasn’t versed enough in outdoorsmanship to know the Witcher was fidgeting rather than doing something necessary.

One of the logs near the top of the pile broke in two and spat a speckle of sparks into the sky. Jaskier looked up, watching them fall. In the low light of the campfire Geralt could make out the dark imprint of a Drowner’s grip across the bard’s neck. 

Which brought Geralt back to his previous thoughts: Jaskier’s mortality. His safety.

Even if he tried to send the bard away, he’d just come back. They hadn’t always traveled together over the past several years, but their separations from one another had grown shorter and shorter each time they occurred. 

What started as Jaskier parting from him for a few months at a time — especially when they came across bigger cities that gave the bard more of a rotation to work with when it came to inns and pubs, plus larger crowds to entice more coin from — dwindled to weeks, then days, then hardly at all. 

Their last time apart was perhaps two fortnights ago, and only for the days where Geralt insisted the bard was  _ not  _ needed in the midst of a local cemetery's routine de-ghouling, thank you very much. It was a day’s ride one way, then a day’s ride right back. Just enough time for the bard to quickly wear out his welcome though overuse of his wit and his words, but still able to turn some profit from it.

Sometimes, Geralt wondered how Jaskier had even managed to survive this long without the watchful eye of a Witcher upon him. 

“Fine. Don’t answer then. See if I care.” Oh, that was right. Jaskier had asked a question, hadn’t he? “You can keep your sullen face and secrety secrets all to yourself then.”

“Somehow, I don’t buy that,” Geralt rumbled. He poked the fire again with his stick. “And besides, there’s no secrets here, bard.”

Jaskier snorted. “Then what has you looking like someone pissed in your ale?”

“I realize it might be foreign work to you, but sometimes, people do just like to sit and think. Doesn’t always have to be nonstop chatter.” 

“Oh,  _ har har _ . At least I know how to hold a conversation, rather than resorting to boorish grunting and graceless cursing. A real Renaissance man, you are.”

“Is it a conversation if only one side speaks and the other is forced to listen? Sounds more like a lecture to me. Maybe an interrogation.”

This, too, was new.  _ Banter _ . Geralt found himself having fun when Jaskier pushed back against him in a way most normal humans wouldn’t dream of doing. What started off as somewhat irksome prattle had turned into a, dare Geralt say it,  _ fun _ way to pass the time. Far better than talking to himself, which he still occasionally did, or Roach — which was most often. Jaskier challenged him on things, made Geralt think through why he was doing something, and not just letting him get away with the typical shrug and chalking it up to his Witcher ways.

The company he got from Jaskier was far different than any he’d had before, and Geralt coveted it, though secretly, with an almost zealous attitude. But... since the Drowners, he’d grown to thinking.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the company, or the banter Geralt enjoyed. Perhaps it was something else Jaskier had, whether the bard knew it or not, that the Witcher found himself trailing after. Because if he wanted Jaskier gone, found him a true annoyance, then the man would be gone. 

And yet, he was still here. 

Geralt ground the ball of his boot in the dirt, unsure of what any of it meant. 

“There you go, off into the ether again,” Jaskier teased, “never to be heard from again.” 

When Geralt looked up, the instrument had been put back into its traveling case and the bard was standing over him with a rasher of venison jerky in hand. He peeled it apart and offered Geralt the larger half. Instead of returning to his side, though, Jaskier plopped down beside the Witcher on the ground to stare into the fire. Due to Geralt having perched on a fallen tree, Jaskier’s shoulder just barely brushed the Witcher’s shin.

Geralt made a noise of confusion. To anyone else, it would have sounded like frustration, but Jaskier seemed to understand nonetheless.

“Just wanted to see what was so interesting about the fire from your perspective,” said Jaskier. “Seeing as though it’s  _ clearly  _ more engaging than I.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling with you, it’s that no level of engagement could ever satisfy you.”

Gods. Why did he have to go and say it like  _ that _ ?

“Oh?” Jaskier’s brows had all but disappeared under his fringe and a devilish smile cut across his face. “And what,  _ praytell _ , do you—,”

Geralt cut him off. “It means you talk too much.”

“Well  _ I _ happen to think that you don’t talk enough, actually.” The bard settled back against the downed tree. Most of his weight was on Geralt’s right leg now, and the Witcher wasn’t sure how he felt about it. “It would probably do well to rehab your image if you didn’t seem so imposing all the time.”

“I’ll consider chatting up a griffin the next time I see one then. See how well that goes for me.” 

Jaskier rocked forward, then back, thumping Geralt with his weight and a laugh. “Don’t be daft, Geralt. You know I mean with people. Townsfolk. Hell, even me.”

“We talk,” said Geralt, slightly petulant. “This is talking.”

He peeled a thin strip of the jerky apart from the rasher and chewed a piece of it. 

“No, I talk. You listen. Sometimes you grunt. Other times you make your scary face and go ‘hmm’ like you’re secretly part ogre or something.”

“What do you call what we’re doing right now?”

“Aggravating!” Jaskier followed suit, ripping apart his own portion of venison into smaller bites. “You only talk with me when you want to argue. Or gripe. Or criticize. It’s like you don’t even know how to just talk, I swear. I have to start  _ all  _ of our conversations, and even then, it’s about as fun as trying to, oh I dunno, give a cat a bath.”

Snorting, Geralt spared a glance to the man at his feet, noting that while the bard had ripped his share into smaller, bite-sized portions, he hadn’t eaten any of them. 

“Don’t criticize my metaphors,” Jaskier snapped, though it wasn’t heated. He lay his head back so that it was completely supported by Geralt’s knee. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

Geralt bounced his leg, sending Jaskier’s head rocking upwards and off the Witcher. Even those little presses of weight to body had Geralt feeling too warm to blame it completely on the fire. His stomach churned, though not in the way which indicated illness or pain.

Jaskier turned to regard Geralt with a pout. “Fine then. It seems my company has decided I have overstayed my welcome.”

“We do have an early start tomorrow,” Geralt nodded to their bedrolls, laid out on the other side of the fire. “It would be best for you to get all the beauty sleep you can.” 

Jaskier gaped. “Ex _ cuse  _ me?” He turned to face Geralt completely. “Are you calling me lacking?”

_ Anything but _ , Geralt thought, though unsure of where that came from.  _ It must truly be later than I thought _ . 

“You can ask the ladies that when we get to Vizima,” Geralt said, smirking. “In the meantime…,”

Standing with his hands on his hips, Jaskier marched from where they sat back to the bedding, all the while mumbling under his breath about “mannerless Witchers.” Geralt pretended not to hear. He also pretended he wasn’t very seriously staring at the bard’s backside, especially where the swell of his ass filled out the travel clothes he wore.

While Jaskier in silks was pleasing to see, there was something equally as appealing about seeing the man dressed down with his sleeves rolled up. Something Geralt wasn’t going to think about nor entertain.

The bard plopped himself down into their sleeping area, though he didn’t immediately lie down. Instead, he watched Geralt from over the slowly dying fire as he put his share of the jerky back into their rations. As he did, the Witcher had a better look at Jaskier’s eyes, which appeared almost supernaturally blue from the flicker of the flames. He didn’t look angry or tired or annoyed. 

If anything, he looked almost  _ fond _ .

“Something on my face?” Asked Geralt, unnerved.

Jaskier shook his head, rising briefly to put the small pouch back into Roach’s saddlebag. “Just... goodnight, Geralt.” He lowered himself down onto the bedding, through a yawn adding, “sleep well.”

Geralt mumbled a soft “you too,” though he doubted human ears would hear it. He watched instead as Jaskier rolled about, attempting to get comfortable, before appearing to finally succumb to sleep. All that could be seen of the man was a small cowlick of brown hair which looked like it had sprouted from the blanket as if a weed.

Looking away from the bard, Geralt found his gaze fixed on the stars. His mind began to wander again.

Jaskier was free with his touches and affection. He often told Geralt that he fell in love with someone or something new every day: The curl of a woman’s hair to the song of a bird to the grin of a well dressed man. He loved freely. Liberally. He loved and survived off love, that much was apparent.

So what was Geralt to a man like that but drought to an already dying field? Mannerless Witcher, boorish brute — Jaskier was right. Even if the words were said in jest, what could he offer the man but a path paved with shed blood and snapped bones? Even were Jaskier to love him back, it would be a road too harsh to travel for someone as delicate as he.

And on a more physical note, what could a man like Geralt — a beast, scarred and disfigured as he were — offer to someone like Jaskier? The bard had a boyish charm that could will even the most stoic of lovers into laughter and a light romp. Not even Geralt was immune to it, clearly, with how long Jaskier had managed to stay with him. 

But for Jaskier to keep with Geralt? It would only lead to sapping the bard of his youth, of his prime, for the benefit of none but a marred mutant like Geralt. Instead of letting Jaskier reach his potential, to flourish somewhere like Oxenfurt or Novigrad, he was coveting the man away like a dragon with jewels.

While he couldn’t ignore the light flicker in his belly — which danced the same way it used to for Yennefer, Geralt now accepted, before they realized they were too similar to work; better as close confidants, perhaps casual lovers, than as partners — he could, perhaps, dissuade Jaskier from throwing it away. Dying for no cause, leaving behind no legacy.

It would hurt, surely, but they said Witchers felt no pain, no emotions. Whoever  _ they  _ were lied, of course, but it was better to be in pain now, for a little while, than to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and know what it was like to part later under worse circumstances.

Because be it death or destiny, Jaskier would end up leaving him. Such was the nature, the delicateness, of mortality. Did he want that? Even if Jaskier did end up sharing the same feelings, could he handle knowing the ending?

Again, the incident with the Drowners came to Geralt, as did the one with the Djinn. He thought of the resuscitation, which was very much  _ not _ a kiss, even if it felt like one.

What if it was he who played a hand in Jaskier’s death? Could he stand it?

Geralt sighed and the act made his bones ache. While moroseness fit his aesthetic, the act did not fit him personally. It made his head feel heavy; his heart burn hot. Perhaps it was time for him to turn in as well. 

He stood, shaking his thoughts, and meandering far enough away from their encampment to relieve himself but close enough by to keep an eye on their belongings. But it was only a few moments into his business, clouded by the brush, that he heard it.

Whispering. And while the bard did sometimes talk in his sleep, it was not in Jaskier’s voice. 

Geralt could sense the panicked breaths of Roach as the light crunch of footfall on gravel met his ear.

“The fuck is a bard doing out this way?”

“ _ Shh _ ! You’ll wake ‘im, y’fuckin’ louse.”

A different, third voice responded. “So what? Not like we planned on keeping ‘im alive anyways.”

Geralt hissed out a curse. Bandits from the sound of it. At least three, but maybe more. And there in the clearing, left defenseless and asleep, was Jaskier. 

“Melitele preserve us, get a load’a them swords!” The second voice again. “The fuck ‘e have those for?”

“Probably nicked ‘em. Some bards ain’t no better than we is, if they’re desperate enough. Y’know. Like whores.”

Tucking himself back in, Geralt patted his person for a weapon before remembering the knife he kept tucked in the calf of his riding boots. It was a dulling little thing, not fit for fighting monsters and barely the length of his forearm, but against a smattering of bandits it would make due — especially if these were simple common folk, not mercenaries. 

One look at Geralt’s eyes and they would turn tail.

If he was lucky, of course.

Creeping quietly back to camp through the foliage, crouched eye level with the ferns around him, Geralt could count the bandits out. Four in total: Three on foot, one on horseback. It was amazing Jaskier hadn’t woken yet from all the sounds they were making. Or maybe he had, and was smart enough to play asleep. 

Geralt wasn’t close enough to listen to his breathing to know which was the case. But while the bard could act foolish, he certainly wasn’t a fool. Perhaps they would both make it out of this yet. 

But before that, he needed to split them up. Taking three on at once was hard, though doable, but man on horseback seemed more... adept than his compatriots, at least by Geralt’s account. He hadn’t uttered a word since approaching their camp, seeming to be the only one of the lot genuinely treating their activities like the burglary it was rather than the drunken romp it ended up as.

Scanning the earth, Geralt located a fist sized rock and hurled it. It landed just shy of the fire, but the furthest point away from Jaskier. Two of the three fools perked up. The other seemed a tad too interested in rifling through the bard’s satchel.

“Wuzzat,” asked the first.

“Animal?” 

They moved in the direction of the rock until the horsebacked bandit stopped them with a command. Or rather, it stopped Geralt in his tracks.

“Whomever is out in the brush, come out.” He adjusted himself atop the horse to reveal a sizable bow in his possession. As he spoke, Jaskier appeared to stir. “Unless you want your friend here to find himself with a new hole in his skull.”

To prove his point, the man loosed an arrow just shy of where Jaskier’s head was on the bedroll. The whoosh of air sent the shocked bard into an upright position and Geralt could hear his rabbit heart throttling away through a sleepy delirium.

“Fuck,” whispered Geralt. He tucked the knife into the sleeve of his shirt, held tight by one of his bracers, then stood with his arms up.

He met Jaskier’s eyes as he entered the clearing. While his heart thumped to the beat of fear, Jaskier’s gaze read a strange look of both trust and confusion.

“Geralt,” he said as the Witcher approached, “you didn’t tell me we were having guests. I would have prepared a—,”

The bandit previously so interested in Jaskier’s pack was upon the bard then and pressed a thin pocket knife pressed right under his jaw. He looked back to the man on horseback as if waiting on permission to slit Jaskier’s throat.

Instead, the horseback man held up a hand.

“I know that voice,” he said, clearly amused, “and I know your hair, Geralt of Rivia. Which makes  _ you _ , bard, Jaskier and  _ us  _ some very fortunate fellows.”

“Glad to see our reputation precedes us,” quipped Jaskier, “though I’m not used to people being excited to meet us, especially when we all know it’s going to end with you lot kebab'd on the pointy end of a Witcher’s sword. Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

Geralt only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Shut up.” 

While he understood the bard’s natural reaction to fear was to try to talk his way out of it, the bravado seldom helped to lessen tensions. Geralt crossed his arms to keep the knife from falling. 

“Your Witcher is right, bardling,” said the horsebacked man, who looked far too smug for Geralt’s liking, “now isn’t the time to run that mouth of yours. Though, I will say, I am a fan of your work. Perhaps we’ll have you  _ sing _ for us later.”

The implication wasn’t lost on any of them. Jaskier’s mouth drew into a tight line but he otherwise stayed silent. The same couldn’t be said for Geralt, in a strange twist of character, who barked back at the man: “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave.  _ Now _ .”

“Who are you to give the orders, eh?” The one with the knife said. “Lamont, whadda we waiting for? There’s four of us an’ two of them.”

The others, which had gone scampering off after the rock Geralt threw were back. They loomed over Jaskier, between the horseback man —  _ Lamont _ — and their compatriot with the knife. The odds were far from his favor, but he’d faced worse. 

Though Jaskier, in the middle of things, a rabbit cornered by hunting dogs, complicated matters.

He’d have to get closer, give himself up so to speak, then strike when the disbursement of men allowed for it. Not optimal. Not by half. But if Jaskier could keep his head down, then run when Geralt allowed for it, then they could get out of here yet.

Lamont regarded him with a look that one would give a stinking farm animal. “What’s stopping us from slitting your bard’s throat and leaving with what we already have?”

“Because you haven’t gotten anything yet,” said Geralt. “I know you haven’t. And you won’t unless I show you, as it’s enchanted.”

Thank the lords Jaskier was faced away from the bandits, as the look on his face would have given them away instantly. The bard was an entertainer, surely, but not one cut out for acting. His ability to lie was even worse.

_ What the fuck are you doing _ ? His gaze seemed to shout.

_ Trust me _ , Geralt hoped his body language said back. He stepped closer to the group and raised his hands, though this time only to the level of his chin, to keep the blade in place. 

“Enchanted?” For the first time since meeting, Lamont seemed impressed. 

“Yes. It’s with my horse. Over there.” Geralt ticked his head in the direction of Roach. With his enhanced vision, he could see her anxiously stomping on a patch of dirt, rearing to kick anything that approached her. “Gold from the forests of Brokilon. From leprechauns. But the moment anyone but us touches it, without our consent, it turns to ash.”

One of the men snorted. “Impossible.”

“If you don’t want it, then all you’re getting from us is bread and jerky.” Geralt shrugged. “Your call.”

Lamont seemed to weigh the option, and Geralt hoped he wasn’t bright enough to realize that the stories of bewitched gold and treasure were simply that — stories. Most humans didn’t know the difference.

“And how would you have that?” He asked. “Last I heard, the wee folk of the forest aren’t apt to part with their riches.”

“All sorts of beings need Witchers. Especially those who live in the forests where monsters dwell.” Just then, Geralt remembered the griffin head still laced to the side of Roach. “You can check the trophy of my kill if you don’t believe me.”

He also hoped they weren’t bright enough to realize griffins, with their large wings, couldn’t hunt in the tight trees of the forest. 

Nodding in the direction of Roach, Lamont told the two without weapons to scamper with a bark of “Edin. Marcus. Go look,” and the two did.

“You have your mutts trained well,” said Jasker, voice oddly jovial for someone held at knifepoint, but the end of his sentence blended into a hiss as his captor pressed the flat of the blade completely across his jugular and pulled Jaskier backwards by his hair. 

“One’a them boys is my little brother, you know,” he hissed. “Would do you well to mind your manners if’n youse don’t wanna die tonight.”

Jaskier’s voice took on the wispy tone it did when he waxed poetic. “Die tonight, die tomorrow. What’s the difference? Try living for today, my good man, and this is no way to do that. Surely, you’d rather be at home with a maiden, doing —  _ ah _ !”

A rivulet of blood dripped down from the point of the blade just under his chin, no deeper than a wound made from shaving but still starkly apparent when splashed across the white of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s nostrils flared, both from the metallic scent of iron and the anger which pumped through his veins.

“Shut up!” The knife wielding man barked. “I’ll stab you, fuck the gold, I’ll stab youse I will with your smart fucking mouth.”

Then Geralt heard the voice of the other two: “He does got a griffin's head, boss!”

And  _ then _ —

“But we can’t find no gold.”

Gods, it was all falling apart. It seemed even Jaskier knew it, as a strange glint entered his eyes.

“Geralt, as much as I  _ love  _ playing the damsel,” and he shifted like he, too, was holding something up his sleeve, “I do believe it’s time we end this little song and dance, if you will.”

Then, with a whirl, Jaskier did something Geralt couldn’t — though should have — expected. He threw dirt: straight into the eyes of the man upon his back, with a yelp of “ha!” When he’d gotten the fistful, Geralt didn’t know, but he found himself launching the knife up his sleeve in the direction of Lamont as Jaskier ran toward him, desperate to get away.

In retrospect, he would be weirdly proud of the bard for being so resourceful and resilient. But in the moment he was scared — not for himself, but for Jaskier and his devil may care attitude. For the sense he had, or rather, didn’t: as if he were indestructible instead of woefully human. 

Geralt ran toward the bard, grabbing one of his swords as he did. But Geralt never claimed to be a knife thrower, and the blade went wide, flying past the horse and completely missing the man. By the time he found the steel weapon in his hand, he could see it was too late.

Lamont took aim at him as his steed reared, screaming a whinny of fear as it reared to its hind legs. He loosed the arrow just as Jaskier turned his head, stupidly, curiously. 

The only thing that saved the bard’s life was the fact Lamont’s aim was off due to the bucking horse — otherwise, the shot would have rung true, striking Jaskier either in the heart or lungs. Instead, the tip embedded itself in the meat of his shoulder, sending him tumbling face first into the ground with the pained scream.

“ _ Geralt _ !”

The Witcher couldn’t even comprehend a reply, rage blinding him. He made the sign of Igni and blew a long gust of fire over Jaskier’s head, in the direction of the blinded man and Lamont on his horse. The beast successfully bucked him this time, and a clattering of felled arrows sounded, littering the ground next to a now empty quiver.

The burned animal took off into the night, stranding her owner.

_ All for the better _ , thought Geralt. _ It’s not like he’ll be riding again after tonight _ . 

“Stay here,” he commanded Jaskier, who spat back through gritted teeth, “don’t need to tell me twice.  _ Oh _ ! Oh, pain.  _ Fuck _ !”

Good. If he was snarking, then Lamont couldn’t have hit anything vulnerable. That didn’t leave him out of the woods of blood loss just yet, however. 

Geralt advanced on the two, sword heavy in his hand at his side. In one feather-light swoop, he cut the head and hands from the body of the knife wielder, almost feeling bad for the man as he hadn’t even completely rubbed the sand from his eyes. That pity lessened, however, as he heard Jaskier groan in an attempt to sit up.

Lamont was still winded, having landed squarely on his back in the dirt. Geralt drove his sword into roughly the same place as Jaskier was shot. The head bandit howled like the dog he was.

Geralt leaned in close.

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” He stood. “I’ll be back for you yet.”

He stalked over to the remaining two bandits, who had foolishly froze in fear at the sound of their leader’s cry. Geralt watched them quake with fear as he towered over them, eyes glowing with a frustration and anger even he couldn’t comprehend. Grabbing both of them by the fronts of their shirts, he drew them in close and whispered in a gravel-smooth voice: “Leave. If you want to live.”

“B-but — my brother—,”

“ _ NOW. _ ”

Geralt threw them back and their asses hardly hit the dirt before they were taking off into the night. He didn’t need to watch them go to know they were gone. Making his way back to the fire, he found Jaskier upright and panting against the log where they sat not hours ago, the front of his tunic having bloomed in a red carnation of his own blood. 

The arrow had ripped all the way through, that much was apparent, but how much so was another question. If the entirety of the arrow hadn’t passed through the body, then it would be up to Geralt to see it through to the other side. It was not a task he looked forward to doing.

He found himself moving back to Lamont, gathering the bandit’s weapon. 

“Did someone send you?”

Lamont held up his free hand as a shield, begging cries of mercy. It was then Geralt realized that while the man appeared tall on his horse, he was small — even less than the size of Jaskier, who was already shorter than Geralt.

He picked an arrow off the ground and knocked it.

“I’ll ask once more, but that’s it,” he honed the tip between Lamont’s eyes, “did someone send you to kill us?”

“No! No I swear!” He cried. “We saw the fire from a distance and thought it was just some journeymen, maybe a family, thought it’d be  _ easy _ . We didn’t realize it was a Witcher! Forgive me.” 

Geralt made to pull the trigger, but Jaskier’s voice stopped him: “Don’t!” 

It wasn’t any louder than a hoarse cry, but Geralt heard him clear as day. He turned to the bard, who was clutching his arm and looking on the edge of a blood loss induced deliriousness.

“No more blood,” plead Jaskier, “not tonight.”

And that was the key, wasn’t it? No matter how stupid, how idealistic the request, Geralt found himself going along with Jaskier’s whims and wishes nevertheless.

“He hurt—,” the  _ you _ is there, but it goes unsaid.

“Just because we occasionally sleep outside like wild animals,” Jaskier paused to groan in pain, “ _ doesn’t  _ mean we have to act like them.”

Geralt held the bard’s gaze with a frown. 

“But I do fear I am,  _ ergh _ , leaking something fierce out of places I shouldn’t be. Oh,  _ dear _ ,” he looked down to see what once was a bloom of blood was now an entire blossom. “Never going to get  _ that  _ one out. So if we could, you know,” he drew circles in the air with his free hand in a ‘speed it up’ motion, “I’d really appreciate it.”

“Listen to your bard.” Lamont gasped. “He talks sense.”

“Quiet!” Barked Geralt. He looked again between Jaskier and the prone bandit, before walking closer to the fire and tossing Lamont’s bow in. The impact sent sparks in every direction, earning a cry from Jaskier — first in surprise, then in actual pain from the movement of his recoil.

“A little warning!” 

Geralt hummed, apologetic, and prowled back to Lamont. Gripping the sword, still embedded through the meat of the bandit’s body, Geralt leaned in so that only Lamont could hear his words.

“If it weren’t for the bard, you’d be dead. Do you understand?” He paused, partly for dramatics but equally to think through his next command. “But if I see you again, I will do worse things than what I did to your friend here. Of that you can be sure. Now—,” Geralt ripped the sword from the ground, making sure to twist the blade so that it did the most damage upon removal.

It would be unlikely Lamont would fully use the arm again, even should it heal properly. From his anguished screams seemed like he, too, realized it as well. Geralt grabbed him by the front of his tunic, lifting him into a standing position as he purred into Lamont’s ear: “ _ Run _ .”

Just for good measure, Geralt gifted him with a firm kick in the ass as Lamont turned tail.

“Oh, you and your  _ showmanship _ ,” Jaskier called as Geralt hurried back to him. “And they call  _ me  _ the entertainer out of our ragtag little pack. If only they knew.”

“I’m going to take the fact that you’re talking means the adrenaline still hasn’t worn off.”

“Oh no, I’m quite sure if my heart beat any faster right now it’d rip out my chest. You’re absolutely correct. In fact, I think I may vomit.” The bard sat up straighter to allow Geralt a view of the entry wound. 

He was glad, for a moment, that Jaskier was faced the opposite direction so he couldn’t see the Witcher’s grimace.

“Did it go through?”

Jaskier prodded near his left pectoral, hissing as he did. “Just the tip of it. I think. I don’t—,” he groaned, “The head hasn’t crested. You’ll have to push it through, won’t you?”

He nodded, then realized Jaskier still couldn’t see him. “I will. But first…” 

Geralt rose to retrieve a strip of leather from his bag. It was a worn down thing, soft from years of being folded and unfolded, twisted and knotted, but it served its purpose in the form of being a tourniquet, a tether — whatever Geralt needed it for. 

Now, it would have to work as a makeshift bite block, to keep the bard from swallowing his own tongue in agony. Coming back with that and some bandages, Geralt noticed that Jaskier looked quite pale but had begun to lightly sweat. Whether it was from nerves or the early onset of infection, he didn’t know. Geralt set himself before the bard in demand of his complete focus. He gave him the leather.

“I’m going to need you to bite down on this,” he pressed the tangle into Jaskier’s free palm, closing the bard’s finger’s around it, “hard as you can, alright?”

“ _ What _ ? Why?”

No sense in sweetening it. “You could swallow your tongue if you don’t. Or, if there’s other beasts around, your screams could send them here and I don’t know if even I could get us out of that.”

Jaskier swallowed, eyes wide with unshed tears. He brought the leather to his mouth, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. Geralt moved behind him, situating himself so that he sat on the log and could get a good bracing point on Jaskier’s back to push the arrow through.

“Are you ready?”

“I trust you.” Jaskier put the strip in his mouth, whimpering as Geralt wrapped his hand around the arrow’s shaft.

“I’m going to go on the count of three, alright?” A lie, but the less tense Jaskier was, the easier it would be for Geralt to send the head through in a clean push. “One—,”

Even though dampened by the leather, Jaskier’s scream was piercing and painful. It tugged on Geralt’s heart as if he were the one with the injury. The bard curled into himself as if to protect his front from further pain, but Geralt unfurled him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We still have to remove it,” he said, voice soft, willing it to be a salve against Jaskier’s pain. “Once I get it out, we can bandage it, then it’s over. I even have some willow bark for you to chew on afterwards.”

Geralt could feel him trembling with his held back sobs. One of Jaskier’s hands came back to lie on top of Geralt’s, giving it a firm squeeze.

_ I trust you _ , he had said. And that was after the Witcher had gotten him hurt, had failed to protect him. Why? The bard, Geralt found, never stopped being full of surprises. 

He made quick work of snapping the back end of the shaft, doing his best to block out the hitching sobs of pain Jaskier tried his utmost to silence. As soon as the back half was out, foolishly, Jaskier spat out the leather and tugged the front portion free too with an agonized groan. 

Hot blood sluggishly wept from the hole like a leaking barrel of ale.

“Need you to take your shirt off now,” said Geralt, already tugging up from the hem, “I can bandage it, then we’ll be done. First thing tomorrow, we’ll have to get you stitched, but I don’t have the resources for that now.”

“ _ Mercy _ ,” Jaskier whispered. He tried hard not to flinch from the pain, but the drag of cotton against an open wound was never soft and the bard was only human

Geralt wished he could grant it to him, but the best he could offer was scraps of wrapped cloth and a piece of bark for pain — until they reached town in the morning. He made quick work of wrapping Jaskier with what he had. When finished, he pressed the thick of his palm to the back of the bard’s neck and squeezed lightly. 

“We’ll have to get you to a healer in the morning, but with the bark, you should last the night.”

“Goodie me.” Jaskier’s voice sounded shot and the trembling from crying had turned to shivering from the cold. “What a night, eh?”

Geralt helped him closer to the fire and back onto his own bedroll. He moved to fetch a spare shirt from Roach, but a light grip on his wrist held him in place. Jaskier’s eyes were still shiny from the tears as he spoke.

“Stay.” Then again, but softer: “Please?”

Geralt was struck then; for how fragile his traveling companion seemed, Jaskier was stronger than anyone knew. Not in the physical sense, but in his head and heart.

It would have cost nothing to sit by and watch Lamont and his bandits be cut down where they stood, repayment demanded for the pain inflicted onto Jaskier. The bard should be cursing Geralt’s very name for letting him get hurt, for not being there, and for the harsh treatment while removing the arrow. But instead, he asked him to stay.

Not many did when they witnessed Geralt after the killing of humans. In fact, it was usually no one. 

“Your injuries—,”

“I’d feel...  _ safer _ . If you were here.” Jaskier dropped his wrist. “If you want.”

No one ever asked Geralt what he wanted. They demanded and they took from him, but they never considered. Never asked. It proved Jaskier’s strength, in his kindness — that even when met with pain and misfortune, he could, he would still, be soft and considerate.

“At least... at least let me get you a shirt,” Geralt said. “You’ll freeze.”

“Alright.”

There was a somewhat clean, though horribly wrinkled, cotton tunic balled into one of Roach’s sattlebags and some willow bark in the medicine bag. He gave her a firm pat on the neck then kissed there briefly as a thank you for staying cool under pressure. Returning for the last time that night to Jaskier, he helped the bard dress, then settled him onto the side that wasn’t injured.

Geralt settled to the ground beside him, within reach but careful not to touch. He would have sat there for the rest of the night, ramrod straight with his legs crossed, had Jaskier not tugged on his fingers in questioning.

“I didn’t literally mean stay in that spot, you know.” He wasn’t looking at Geralt, opting to stare in a tired laziness into the fire. His voice was muffled through the chew of bark in his mouth. “Share the bedroll with me.”

“Jaskier—,”

“My injuries will be fine. You’re here, aren’t you?”

Geralt couldn’t ignore the way his heart thumped in response. Not that time. Jaskier struggled to push himself into a sitting position, hissing as his shirt moved against the bandages. Already, Geralt could see blood leaking again through the makeshift aid under Jaskier’s clothes.

“Lie down.” 

Jaskier patted the bedroll, tone leaving no room for argument.

“Here?”

“Nowhere else but.” 

He shuffled so Geralt could move onto the bedding. Geralt helped him, mindful not to bump the bandages as Jaskier lowered himself back down, closer to the fire. The Witcher found himself settled right next to him. He opened his mouth but Jaskier spoke before he could.

“I know it’s silly,” he said it so fast that it almost came out sounding like one word, “but — the thought of being woken up like that. Again. I just — well, it would only be for tonight, if you could humor me.”

Jittery was a normal look for the bard but this was a nervousness onset by pained fear. Geralt frowned, breathing out slow through his nose in an attempt to settle himself. It was the wrong move, apparently, for Jaskier took it as a noise of annoyance.

“Or, if you’d like to go back to your own roll, you can. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I just—,”

“ _ Jaskier _ .” One rumble from Geralt silenced him. “It’s not—,” he stopped to think through his words, again, since Jaskier was so prone on reading actions for feelings that weren’t really there. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at  _ me _ , OK? Now go to sleep.”

“What?”

Shit. Now he opened the door to actually  _ talking  _ about feelings, didn’t he?

“Geralt, you can’t blame yourself for what happened.” Jaskier motioned like he meant to roll over and face him, but laying on his uninjured shoulder meant a slight relief of pain unlike what turning Geralt’s way could offer. He stilled, hand clenching and unclenching in frustration, but started talking again. “Please, tell me you don’t actually think that this arrow  _ thing  _ is your fault.”

“You were shot. I should have been there, and I wasn’t.”

“And why was that?”

“Because,” Geralt felt embarrassed to say, “because I had to piss, alright? I was taking a piss in the woods and they ambushed you. I should have been there and I wasn’t. End of story.”

“So you’ll just never leave me alone again, is that what I’m to understand?” Jaskier picked a broken piece of bark out of his mouth and flicked it into the fire. “ You’re going to start sleeping with your eyes open? Following me out when I do my own business?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “What are you even talking—,”

“I’m not an invalid, Geralt, no matter what you might think.” The bard sighed in a way that Geralt heard from mothers dealing with unruly, though amusing, children. “I’m always going to get hurt. I’m going to get into bad situations. And yes, traveling with you makes them more frequent — but it also makes life more  _ exciting,  _ don’t you see? For someone like... someone like me, the other choices are bouncing from bar to bar every night or being the kept pet of some ponce royal.

“I want to see the world. I want to go exploring. I want to follow you on contracts and sing ballads of your adventures, to change peoples’ minds about you.  _ That’s _ what I want to do. I don’t want to be  _ safe _ , Geralt. I want to  _ live _ .”

He settled into the bedroll again, seemingly having made his peace. Geralt, lying on his back, found himself staring at the stars for the second time that night; so much to consider but unsure of where to even start. He ran a hand over his scarred face and exhaled.

Jaskier talked of living though he easily could have died tonight — the same with the djinn and the Drowners and the time they’d met Filivandril and the elves. 

“There are other ways to live that don’t involve being shot, you know.”

“Other ways to survive, you mean.”

“Well — can’t live if you’re not alive.”

“But are you alive if you’re not truly living?”

Geralt blew a raspberry, a rather unbecoming noise. “Enough circular poetry-talk. You need to sleep.”

Jaskier made a noise of protest that morphed into a yawn.

“I’m doing it because I want to,” he said, voice thick with sleep, “not because you told me to.”

A chuckle left Geralt’s mouth before he could help it. But that was Jaskier — making even the simplest of tasks absolutely arduous. Yet, somehow, that was part of his charm.

Geralt rolled over to face the field behind them, eyes scanning the darkness for anything else that could go bump in the night. Seeing nothing but deer and rodents, he closed his eyes, which had become heavy now that his own adrenaline had worn away.

For a moment, he thought of telling the bard how proud he was of the fight he put up today, both in the moment and the aftermath.

But, then again, that might be too much. 

So Geralt swallowed it, content to lie there with his ankle occasionally bumping into Jaskier’s own, if that was all he got. He sank into slumber, thinking about the day and of Jaskier. Running over the when, the why, of how this bard became so integral to his existence, his happiness: just like he’d realized with the Drowners.

But there was no where, or when. Just is. Just now. Just that it had happened, just like how quickly he’d found himself falling for Yennefer — only slightly different. This wasn’t because he’d met his match, as he had with her, like the crashing of two waves against each other in an effort to become one.

It was because—

Because he didn’t know why. Because he just did. Jaskier had wheedled his way into Geralt’s world in the unique way that only he was good at: annoying, but endearing. The first human not to run from him, but toward him. At least the first since Renfri. Geralt’s heart lurched at the thought of her.

But there Jaskier stayed. There, he flourished.

It was… different,  _ weird _ even, to think about. 

Just before falling asleep, he heard Jaskier mumble about pleasant dreams. 

_ Fool _ , Geralt thought. But he fell asleep smiling.

* * *

Morning found Geralt with his nose buried into the knob of Jaskier’s spine, awakening him with the smell of sweat and blood but also a faint waft of rosehip and cinnamon. He froze, instinctively, when he’d realized that one of his arms was firmly encircled about the bard’s trim waist.

When he’d rolled over in the night, he had no idea. But  _ why— _

The first light of dawn over the field had woken him, a practice ingrained in Geralt since his days at Kaer Morhen. But what had also awoken him was the firm press of an ass against very  _ awake _ morning wood. Geralt was glad, in that moment, no one else was awake to see his face flame with a blush. He hitched his hips backwards, putting space between them. 

Jaskier, for his part, seemed none the wiser of the Witcher’s predicament. The man stayed snoring softly, twitching every so often from deep in his dreams. The fact he had gotten to sleep at all was a positive, Geralt thought. An arrow’s pain on a man not used to battle could be debilitating. And even when hardened, it was no light nip on the nose.

His traitorous arms tightened around the bard and Geralt pressed his forehead along the column of Jaskier’s neck. His heartbeat, Geralt noted, was strong but slightly fast. The sooner they got him to a healer, the better. But the Witcher found himself unable to stand.

Who knew who knew when he would have another chance like this? 

The thought made him feel lecherous. 

_ Who am I to take advantage of Jaskier like this _ , was more the proper question to ask, Geralt thought. His friend had come to him in pain, requesting protection, and now Geralt clung to him like an old man at a brothel.

The thought sickened him. Who was he to be selfish like this?

With a deep sigh, he disentangled the two of them, rising to begin packing up their site. By the time almost all their gear had been rolled and replaced onto Roach’s back, Jaskier had finally risen. 

Geralt found him sucking on what was left of last night’s bark with an annoyed look on his face.

“I had the most  _ wonderful _ dream, at least I think it was,” he told Geralt, unprompted, “and now I’ve woken to the most hideous of pain. How  _ do  _ you live like this, Geralt? Getting stabbed all the time and all that.”

“I try not to. Mostly.” He helped Jaskier to stand. “How are you—,”

“Like I’ve got a hole in my arm, honestly. And my mouth now tastes like dirt. It’s  _ horrid _ . I want a bath.”

Geralt pursed his lips but guided Jaskier to Roach. “It’ll be faster if we both ride.” 

After only a minor squabble, most of which was Jaskier repeating and reaffirming that he was not an invalid, Geralt helped the bard onto the back of the horse while he himself took the saddle. He was about ready to snap the reins when he felt the tentative slide of Jaskier’s uninjured arm around his middle.

“I hope this is OK,” he said, voice uncharastically soft, like it had been when he’d asked Geralt to keep watch over him last night. When he talked, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s breath on his ear and jaw. “It’s... easier on my arm to hold on like this, you see.”

The weight of Jaskier’s arm burnt through Geralt’s leathers like a brand, the reverse of what he’d woken up to just hours ago and he found himself wondering when it became like this  _ —  _ but not why. With a face and a personality like Jaskier’s, it was easy to understand why.

“It’s,” Geralt searched for the right word, after a moment landing on, “fine.” Then with more conviction: “It’s alright.” 

He pressed Roach forward into a trot that sped into a cantor, mindful of how the jostling from her hooves could be affecting Jaskier. But the bard said nothing, just holding on to Geralt with his face pressed in between the Witcher’s shoulder blades to protect it from the wind. 

Were it any other situation, something like this could be nice. Simple. Lost in the thought, Geralt’s hand dipped from its upright position on the reigns to where he typically kept them at his lap. They knocked against the back Jaskier’s hand.

Tentative, he left it there, like the move was purposeful but thoughtless. He kept them there. 

_ Perhaps — _

Thoughts of selfishness, of self doubt, rose up in him. He tried to pull away but Jaskier’s fingers moved then, against the inside of Geralt’s wrist, at the quick of his pulse. Were he supernatural, he’d know the beating of Geralt’s heart was racing compared to its usual pace, and he was thankful that Jaskier couldn’t look him in the eye.

For if he could, the bard would see how even Witchers could get scared sometimes. Not scared: nervous. Apprehensive. Almost shy.

He turned his head to call behind him: “There should be a village just beyond that hill — can you make it?”

Jaskier’s rabbit-shy touch unfolded to slide along the bone of Geralt’s arm and the raised bump of his wrist. He squeezed. He left it there. And sure, he could have spoken, but his response was already loud enough. 

_ I trust you _ , it said.

But did the Witcher trust himself? That was the bigger question.

Geralt dropped a free hand to the bard’s own and squeezed back. He could be misreading it, misunderstanding it entirely, but for the moment, he’d run with it. He’d entertain it, if that’s what Jaskier was after — the bard so free with his touch and love that gestures meant for lovers were used on friend alike with no regard for others' feelings. 

Because maybe this was nothing. Maybe this was Jaskier being Jaskier, being thankful in the only way he knew how. After all, as Geralt had thought last night — the bard and a Witcher? It couldn’t be.

For the moment though, Geralt could pretend. Maybe this could be a reality. Someday.

Jaskier grasped for his fingers and Geralt held on tight for the time being. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier: *does literally anything*  
> Geralt: I am just. Little creature.
> 
> (Don't worry folks, we will get around to the kissing and confessions very soon -- possibly even a Jaskier POV, if enough people are interested!)


End file.
